Back to the ghost mall today. She calls to make sure what she needs is in stock as promised two days ago. A bout of insomnia last night means a late wake up for me and that means getting ready for the day long past noon.
“Are you ready?”
“Almost!”
I pick up snacky lunch dishes while she gets ready.
“Are you ready now?”
“Almost!” Antsy, I’m ready to go and return home for doing all of the things that need doing. If we don’t go now, we’ll get stuck in traffic on the way back.
“Let’s go!” I holler impatiently.
“I’m almost ready!”
“You said that two almosts ago!”
#lifewithateen
Why can’t she just answer the question with a simple yes or no?
A canceled appointment led S. and me to the mall for something she wanted (and definitely didn’t need). The only place to get it is from a store at the mall. It’s almost 11:00 and the parking lot is deserted. Did we miss something? I turn a corner and find a small group of cars parked near the front doors of an anchor store. Prime real estate back in its hey-day.
We go through Macy’s bedding department. All of the beds are dull beige with lifeless and colorless bedding. They don’t look inviting. Gone are the days of wanting to curl up in a cushy and fluffy department store bed. I bypass Christmas themed super clearance dinnerware I don’t need. Someone else can get the deal. Geoffrey the Toys R Us giraffe from the kids’ toy section grins at no one, pink Barbie boxes line shelves willing kids to take a look, but there are no kids. We pass escalators that are either broken or turned off. To save energy? Who knows. We head to the front of the store that opens to the mall.
I haven’t been here in years. I missed the mark and parked on the opposite end of where we need to go. What was once an old Borders book store is open, full of giant stuffed Pokémon and other licensed stuffed toys in the windows, but more shops are caged closed with the lights off than those brightly flashing their wares. Jewelry stores. Candles. Shoes. A boutique announcing everything must go to no one but us.
Nearby escalators we planned to take are also not operational. What’s up with the escalators? We continue on, looking for people. I relay my “when I was your age” story about how spring break brought everyone who didn’t go anywhere to the mall. Even that was a treat for those who didn’t travel. We pass the food court. Every seat is available. Chick-fil-a lines snaking around tables are gone. A pretzel place is there, but most other well-known food court spaces disappeared. Pizza. Baked potatoes. Footlong corndogs. Panda Express. All gone. A shut down movie theater around the corner doesn’t send its buttery popcorn scent luring people to catch a flick.
Finding working escalators, we descend to the first floor. Gray covers robe vendorless mall carts stationed along the center walkways. No one asks us to test lotion, no cheap silver jewelry beckons us to take a look and politely decline. A mom with two littles smiles as they sit on the Easter bunny’s lap-likely the same costume used for the past thirty years-no line here either.
“That bunny is creepy.”
Formal dresses sparkle, desperately hoping for a prom queen or quinceañera to take them out of their misery and out on the town. S. doesn’t give them a second look, but if I were choosing, it would be the long emerald green one.
We arrive at the shop S. needed to find. Is this place open? It’s hard to tell. Half the lights are off, but the space is open, so we go inside.
“We’re out of stock right now,” the lone sales clerk informs us, “but our shipments come in at noon on Thursday.” We’re the only three people in the store and she she stands behind the counter as if she’s afraid to come out, peering at us, confirming we’re real people shoppers.
Wanting to take a quick look, we walk around to another anchor store. The lights are on, sign still flashing brightly, but the glass doors are closed. All inventory has been stripped, fixtures bare, but signs still advertise manly cologne.
“Let’s get out of here. This place is sad and depressing. It has really low energy, Mom, I don’t like it.”
An empty coin operated carousel offering FUN plays an odd calliope circus tune as an animatronic Build-a-Bear waves, flanked by stuffed bears, pink Peeps, bunnies, and rabbits advertising spring.
Easter bunny sits alone, the mom and her littles long gone.
***
Today, I stepped into our version of the Jasper Mall documentary.
I might be upset to change my plans this weekend, but I didn’t have any. A tough week reinforced my decision to putter around and do something. Or not. An even rougher night almost yielded a 3:30 a.m. draft, but I was able to course-correct and get back into snooze mode.
My morning walk didn’t happen either and I don’t plan to take one later. It’s a cool springy type of rainy day, allowing me to leave the back door open until the cool breeze becomes a little too much and S. exclaims that it’s just too cold! I enjoy inviting in the sound of soft rainfall, especially since there isn’t warm humid air to accompany it. That won’t be the case in a few weeks. I’ll take all I can now.
S. made her own brunch. I had coffee and cinnamon toast. Hubby is working. Cooking likely won’t happen today. We’re at the grab and go stage of life since being together for a meal is tricky.
#lifewithateen
A massage is scheduled this afternoon. Maybe I can slow down enough to catch my breath. I’m almost at the stage of life where I can care about not caring. Groceries, laundry, and piles of a busy week that needs tidying are patient enough to wait for another day.
S. walks down the stairs announcing, “I’ve decided to go ahead and get ready to start the day.”
She struts on stage with small quick steps, wearing a snug black long sleeve shirt, high-waisted turquoise and navy polka dot capris that zip up the back, black kitten heels, and bobby socks. Another girl accompanies her, stage giggles and conversations over a menu summon empty red drink glasses from a waiter. They take their drinks and move from a table to a diner counter, backs to the audience, continuing their conversation.
The plot continues across the stage until the end. Cast members, hand in hand, take center stage. Bow. Applause.
We stop for ice cream on the way home.
A late night for a Thursday. Time to decompress. The dog sniffed us all, reassured of our presence. She’s gone her way. Myth Busters keeps my husband company. I’m tapping away at my laptop. Her backpack sits in her chair at the kitchen table.
Strewn across the table, a yellow envelope holds notes of encouraging words from her directors. Yes, I read them. Two white long-stemmed roses rest next to a long plastic nose.
Cyrano ’26 is written on one side of the nose, Sophie on the other.
I take the roses, sniff their scent, and fill a white bud vase with water.
Escape rooms. I did one as a team building activity one year with our campus leadership team. We had a great time, but it’s the only one I’ve done.
I purchased one for the hubster’s birthday. Rather than giving material gifts, we’ve started gifting outings. This would be a first for everyone else. I made the reservation and consulted my 22 year old about which one to choose. The level of difficulty ranged from 7-10 with different themes.
“Choose a 7, we want to be able to get out and make Dad think he got us out of there.”
Based on availability, I went with Lost Cities, an iteration of Raiders of the Lost Ark. We’re mostly intelligent and should be able to bust out, but together, we’re kinda dumb. Way too much bickering. No one ever listens to me anyway, so in this setting, I kept my mouth shut. None of us tried working together. I kept reminding everyone the point of this thing is working together and helping one another.
E kept hitting the button for hints. S was trying to figure things out, which was great, but inside the temple with a face staring at us, non-glowing eyes inactive because we couldn’t figure out the code, the kids transformed into 7 year old S and 13 year old E. They butted heads with sibling rivalry right in the middle, cramming them together. Bam! Bam! Bam!
I thought they’d outgrown it, but it still manages to sneak in.
I wanted to take everything in and work the clues to unlock the codes. The time crunch adds urgency. Divide and conquer doesn’t work well in this setting. We weren’t cleaning the kitchen after dinner, we needed to solve some puzzles.
With seconds to spare, we entered the last code and the door opened.
“We escaped!” exclaimed hubster.
“Dad, they practically gave us all the answers,” E reminded him.
“Yeah, I muttered, no thanks to you asking for clues every two minutes. Didn’t even give us a chance to think.”
It was a good time despite the bickering. We didn’t break the code of conduct and our language stayed clean. S and E went back to their teen and young adult selves, and sibling rivalry stayed behind to wait for the next contestants. We took our photo and parting goods–a printed wristband printed with We Escaped Lost Cities!–and continued with our weekend.
Summer Moon Coffee's 1/4 Moon, hot those jeans that go with everything and always fit dress them up dress them down reliable chilly air between season transitions Babies, all cuddly and squishy Childhood no tantrums no attitude all fun Teens when they have a good speak with you day Adult kids stopping by just because contentment enough ups enough downs to make appreciation stick
March slicing is challenging. Spring break is typically my week for reading and replying to more posts and responding to comments. This year, after many years of staycations, we decided to take a much needed spring break trip.
We’re having a great time despite the lack of sleep and an early flight.
Routines are off the table for a few days, so slicing is a struggle.
Plans took a turn when Migraine packed her bags and arrived at 5:00 a.m. Who invited her? I booked a whole separate room for her and hopefully she’ll stay out of my space.
My soon to be #sweetsixteener hit me up for a #birthday gift. Three months ahead of time. Important items of discussion typically happen at the #lastpossibleminute, but here we are. On the bright side, her skills are improving-ish? Not only does she ask me three months and a week in advance, she does so during my afternoon walk. Via #text. Can Novio Boy tag along? Oh, and it’s in San Antonio. #minordetails
The door hasn’t even shut behind me when I walk in and she #hollers “Ma-a-a-h-m…did you get my message?” She emerges at the top of the stairs. Then she hops down. Must be important.
“Okay, #hearmeout…”
I stop and let her flow.
“…there’s this concert, you’ll hate the music, but maybe not?”
My questions addressing all of the things she hasn’t considered, never mind she described it as a midwestern emo band (what is that?), are rising to the top and bubbling. I have to turn down the heat so they don’t spill over.
Tickets are cheap. #redflag. They’ll hit you with #fees. It’s at 9:00 in the morning. #weird and #anotherreadflag. Can Novio Boy come along? #redflagandsirens. It’s at a place called Paper Tiger.
I look it up. It looks like a #divebar #ohhellno
I don’t say yes. I don’t say no. #researchmode. I can’t find it on the ticket apps I use.
“But I got the link to buy tickets on #spotify!” her two-year-old self peeks out for a few seconds before she stuffs her back deep inside.
“Hold on, I’m looking.” Dallas, Houston, L.A. …”Oh, I see, there’s the fine print, TBA, so even if it says 9:00 a.m, they may still be in the planning stages. Listen. This isn’t a big venue. If it was at the Alamodome, it would be different. I have to check out this Paper Tiger place. It sounds like a bar near St. Mary’s campus. If it’s a bar, you have to be over 21 to get in.”
“But how is it that I can buy a ticket if…”
“The same way you opened up your Instagram and Snapchat accounts that you aren’t supposed to have. Guaranteed, if it’s a bar, they’ll check your ID to get in.”
“But even if I have tickets?”
“Chica, you first have to be 21. Give me time to check it out. Have you looked at the venue?”
“What’s that?”
#sigh
It appears minors must be accompanied by an adult. There is a bar #yayme It’s small and frequently hosts live bands. Reviews are positive. I know nothing about the band. #lighbulbmoment
My #livemusicguru friend! I send her a message asking about the venue. Yes, she has been there and enjoyed it. Yes, it’s safe for teens, but it’s best to go with her. There are restaurants and other bars within walking distance.
“Can I pay you to take her?”
“Lol! If it’s a band I like I’ll go with you.”
It’s still a little early and I’m not ready to purchase tickets. There may be a music festival going on which explains the 9:00 a.m. show. I feel #awkward tagging along, but I also don’t want to leave her there without being on the premises. I promise I’ll hide in the back somewhere.
Why is it that an adult can take their kids to most places, but if teens take parents, are they #weirdos or do they have #coolparents?
About first loves, her middle school self "She's so cute but needs a big booty, a big booty-licious butt!" Endless ribbons, all colors and textures resemble tangled spaghetti at one end of the table buttons fill a small Mason jar nearby today was meant for cleaning messes not making them, but crafting wins–at least she's off her phone "The first person you date isn't necessarily the one you love..." "Umm...hmm.." I've learned to nod in agreement Listen No need to comment No need to disagree Just listen, while draft ideas struggle to be written She's quiet now, concentrating on re-stuffing a critter she's making from unworn socks The washing machine whirrs through it's Saturday load of laundry Why must weekends skip through time in such a hurry? She stitches the project closed, the one with the big, booty-licious butt "Our school has a confessions page..." "There's this influncer..." Laundry needs drying We save daylight later tonight but didn't the day just begin? She sews I draft She's talking again
Small town life puts a special bubble around you. We didn’t get out much as kids, except to run errands with our mom in a larger, but still small-ish town. Orthodontist appointments, groceries, Pizza Hut buffet, and if we were lucky, a visit to the music store.
Contests from cereal boxes, Columbia House subscription forms, magazine inserts for free Banana Republic catalogs, and addresses from Teen Beat to swoon-worthy heart throbs were our way to connect to the world. Except, we weren’t allowed to send any Columbia House cards, ever. Don’t you dare was warning enough. I filled out my selections and address anyway, but it never went in the mail. I’d imagine life with endless cassettes.
Any letters that were exchanged were slipped to friends between classes in that fancy 80s wrap around fold. If we sent anything, it was lost forever, but it was fun imagining winning a lifetime supply of corn flakes. Little Debbies. Willy Wonka candy.
One day, there was a surprise. I arrived home after school, dropping my backpack on a chair at the kitchen table. Everyone else gathered around the buzz of the kitchen, willing dinner to be served, hot tortillas flying off the griddle and onto a cloth dish towel to keep them warm.
“You got something in the mail,” Mom mentioned between the rolling pin sliding across the counter, flattening balls of dough.
“Me?” I looked through the stack and found something with my name on it. I didn’t request anything. Perplexed, I flip the envelope over and retrieve a letter. Brochures I ignore are stuffed in the envelope, but I place them on the table in favor of the letter.
It’s addressed to me and I start reading aloud.
“…bedwetting is not a problem you should be ashamed of…”
“BED WETTING?! I don’t wet the bed!”
“Bed wetting?” Mom asks.
I look at the brochure full of resources to rectify the problem. People of all ages…
“Where did this come from and why does it have MYNAME on it?”
I hear giggling. It gradually grows into full-blown laughter. My younger sister can’t contain herself. “It was me; I did it!”
“What did you do?” Mom asks.
“I filled out the card,” hysterical laughter.
“At the orthodontist’s office, when you had an appointment. I didn’t think they’d send anything!”
“Thanks a lot!” I scream only like a first-born annoyed by a sibling teen can scream. And then I started crying of embarrassment. Someone, somewhere, sent me mail because they think I’m a bed wetter. How humiliating.
Everyone else laughed. Mom kept making tortillas and brushed it off. “Throw it away, it doesn’t matter.”
Nerds Beget Nerds 